The noise and flash of the big city bewildered and dazzled the girl from the In-Place and encrusted her with an unreality that spared her many a pang of loss, and also fear for the future. Boswell's apartment, high above the street and overlooking the Hudson River and Palisades, became a veritable sanctuary from which she dreaded to emerge and to which she clung in a passion of self-preservation. The gray wall of stone across the sparkling stream grew to be, in her vivid fancy, the barrier between the past and future. Against it, unseen, faint, but persistent, beat what once had been—her grim father, her weak, tearful mother, lonely, kindly Master Farwell, and all the lesser folk of Kenmore. Pressing close and straining to hold her, these dim, shadowy memories clustered, but she no longer appeared a part of them, like them, or in any way connected with them. On the other hand, below the eyrie dwelling in which she was temporarily sheltered, lay the whirlpool of sound and motion into which, sooner or later, she must plunge.
With keen appreciation and understanding of this phase of her development, John Boswell kept conversation and life upon the surface, and rarely permitted a letting-down of thought. Cautiously, and not too often, he took his guest on tours of inspection and watched her while she underwent new ordeals or experienced pain from unknown thrills. He had never been more interested or amused in his life, and, in his enthusiasm, exaggerated Priscilla's capabilities. He revelled in her frankness and her confidence; he learned from her more of Farwell than he could have learned in any other way, and his faithful heart throbbed in pity, pride, and affection for the lonely master of the In-Place, who, little heeding his own progress, had triumphed over his old and lesser self at last.
The home of Boswell was a large and sunny apartment high up in the huge building. Only one servant, a marvellously silent and efficient Japanese, ran the economic machinery, awesomely defended Boswell's library when the master retired to perform his mystic rites, and in all relations was exemplary. Poor Boswell's rites comprised a devouring appetite for reading and a rather happy talent for turning off a short story as unique and human as he was himself.
After Priscilla Glenn arrived, Toky, as the servant was called, was tested to the uttermost. Never before had Boswell introduced a woman into the sphere sacred to Man. Toky disapproved, was utterly disgusted; he lost his implicit faith in his master's wisdom, but he adopted a manner at once so magnanimous and charming that Boswell set to work and planned future gifts of appreciation for his servant.
No other woman came to the apartment; Boswell shrank from them, not bitterly or resentfully, but sensitively. Men took him more or less for granted when he touched their lives; women overdid the determination, on their parts, to set him at ease. Long since he had turned his poor, misshapen back upon the very natural and legitimate desire for the happy mingling of both sexes, but after Priscilla Glenn became his guest he recognized the need of women friends in a sharp and painful manner. They could have helped him so much; could have solved so many problems for him and the girl; but as it was he had to do the best he could alone.
The hundred dollars, still to be repaid to Farwell, worked wonders in the week following the arrival of the Beetle and the Butterfly, as Boswell insisted upon calling himself and Priscilla. Having no power at court, Boswell cast himself on the mercy of lesser folks and managed, by way of secret nods and whispers, to gain the coöperation of sympathetic-looking shop girls in order to array Priscilla in garments that would secure her and him from impudent stares and offensive leers. The evenings following these shopping expeditions were devoted to "casting up accounts." Priscilla was absolutely lacking in worldly wisdom, but she had a sense of accuracy that drove Boswell to the outer edge of veracity. Never having bought an article of clothing for herself, Priscilla attacked this new problem with perfectly blank faith. Prices often surprised and startled her by their smallness, but the results obtained were gloriously gratifying.
"I can better understand the lure of the States now, Mr. Boswell," she said one evening as the two sat in the library with the wind howling down Boswell's exaggerations and the fire illuminating the girl's face. "Kenmore prices were impossible, but one can go wild here for so little. Just fancy! That whole beautiful suit for two dollars and eighty-seven——"
"Eighty-nine!" Boswell severely broke in, shaking his pencil at her as he sat perched, like a benign gargoyle, by his study table. "I'll not have Farwell defrauded while he cannot protect his own interests."
"Two eighty-nine," Priscilla agreed, with a laugh so merry and carefree that the listener dropped his tired eyes. "And how much does that leave of the hundred, Mr. Boswell? I tremble when I think of the silk gown so soft and pretty, the slippers and stockings to match, and the storm coat, umbrella, heavy shoes, and—and—other things."
Boswell referred to his notes and long lines of figures.